When I was a freshman at UCLA I had a free hour at lunchtime in between classes – so I’d sit in the quad in front of the speakers’ forum on Bruin Walk and listen to the lineup of rather oddball speakers – ranging from political revolutionaries to fundamentalist preachers. One afternoon I ate my peanut butter sandwich to a fire & brimstone preacher who was warning his little flock that there was a very good chance that we’d all end up in hell. He must have noticed that I was listening – for when he said his final amen, he rushed up to me and stuck his fat little finger in my face and said “are you saved?” Read more →

A very Blessed first Sunday in the Season of Lent to you all. We’re in purple now – suggesting repentance and solemnity. Lent is that time in our Church year that begins the long journey to the Cross – a journey we must take if we are to have a true Easter.

There are six Sundays in Lent – around 40 days of sincere and disciplined self-reflection. The word itself – Lent – is a little mysterious in its origin, but it appears to come from Old English and Old German meaning “lengthening” noting that the days are getting longer…

We’re closing in on the final weeks of the Season of the Epiphany – our time in the Church year in which we give special attention to the appearance or manifestation of Jesus … and specifically to his teachings from the Sermon on the Mount. So — as we move on through this season towards the next – the Season of Lent – why now does our lectionary take a detour to … Moses?

An excellent question! Moses was the father of the Law which established the manner of life of the Hebrew people. Jesus reflected on this (his own heritage) by saying: Read more →

Remember then from what you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first.

—Revelation 2:5a

We used to put the Pilgrims on a pedestal in this country. They represented all that was good about our beginnings. And of all the things about them that we idealized, it was their search for religious freedom that we found most inspiring.

The story of the first Thanksgiving was a subplot to the overall narrative. But it fit in quite nicely: After surviving a brutal winter, planting crops with the help of the people who were there first, and bringing in their first harvest, they invited their Native American neighbors to a feast to show their gratitude to God.

Never mind that we forget the Pilgrim calendar, that they didn’t celebrate holidays as we think of them—no Christmas, no saints days, nothing that we think of as a holiday at all really. Their calendar consisted six work days every week, and the only icing needed on that divinely baked cake was the Lord’s Day—the day of rest when they worshiped together as a community.

And as a they occasionally had other observances imposed by their leaders. When they lost sight of who they were, they called for days of communal fasting and penitence. When things were going well, the community was called upon to give thanks to God for the blessings they were enjoying. This did not necessarily include a feast. But sometimes it did.

And so in September 1621 when the leadership of the new colony of Plymouth called upon the community to give thanks for a harvest and, indeed, for the fact that they were even alive, they decided to acknowledge the rôle their neighbors played in their survival by inviting them to a meal.

The relationship of the Pilgrims with their neighbors is often misunderstood. So violently have we knocked the Pilgrims off the pedestal we used to have them on, that we can no longer even see what their relationship with Native Americans originally looked like.

So let’s talk a bit about what went on between the Englishmen and –women we claim as our ancestors, and the people called the Wampanoag who already lived on the land surrounding Plymouth Rock. We must first remember that the Pilgrims were far from the first Europeans in the Americas. The Spanish had begun exploiting the New World over a century before, and one of the side effects of that exploitation was the arrival of Old World diseases. Indigenous Americans had no resistance to many of these diseases, and so the devastation was horrendous. We cannot overlook the epidemics that followed, but we must also admit that these two sides of the world would someday have to meet. Perhaps the spread of small pox and measles and other diseases was inevitable.

But however we may choose to look at it, in the years just prior to the Pilgrims’ arrival, those diseases had finally reached what we now call New England, and the impact upon the population there had been devastating. We all know that the Pilgrims needed the Native peoples to teach them how to live on this strange land. But what we often overlook is the fact that the Native peoples also needed the Pilgrims. People thrive when there is interaction with outsiders, when there’s trade, when there’s an exchange of knowledge and ideas. When people are isolated, when their numbers fall below a certain level, when there’s no opportunity for trade or any other kind of exchange, that’s when peoples and cultures meet their downfall.

This need for mutual exchange, however, was not something the Pilgrims exploited in a bad way. They did not know that the people they met here were in desperate straits. But they genuinely had no desire to force their own culture— not even their own religion—upon the Wampanoag. War did not break out in Plymouth for over fifty years; and indeed the first generation of both European and Native Americans after the landing at Plymouth Rock viewed each other in a positive light. They needed each other to survive, and because of each other, both groups actually began to thrive.

The distance between our ideal of what the Pilgrims should have been and what the Pilgrims actually were really isn’t as great as we’re told these days that it was. Were the Pilgrims the open-minded Christians that their children’s children’s children in the United Church of Christ became? By no means. I suspect most of us would have found their Christianity to be a rather oppressive religion indeed. But by the same token, they did not arrive on North American shores with the intention of exploiting the people they found here, or stripping the land of its resources and shipping them back to Europe.

And so, I think, I’ve just named two of the things about American Thanksgiving which makes our national holiday different from harvest thanksgivings in other places.

First, the Pilgrim idea of thanksgiving was a general term encompassing many different things to be thankful for—not specifically harvest. Indeed, when Abraham Lincoln made this holiday official during the Civil War, it was the continued survival of the Union—not the harvest—that he asked Americans to celebrate.

And second, the first Thanksgiving was an intercultural and interreligious celebration, and this is the way it’s generally depicted in American art. People from two different continents who understood little about each other and who worshiped God in completely different ways came together in peace.

In this morning’s New Testament reading, God has good words to speak to the Ephesus. They had gotten off to an excellent start. But it’s made known that God also has something against the Ephesians—they seem to have fallen out of love with their Savior… or at least their love has grown weaker over time. “Remember from what you’ve fallen,” they’re told, “and turn back.”

We’re different people with different circumstances, but I wonder if God might not say the same thing to Americans. Remember from what you’ve fallen, and turn back:

Remember that little band of Pilgrims who fasted and prayed when they realized they’d gone astray, and who called one another to intentional gratitude when things were going well.

Remember the true ideals you celebrate when you observe your own Thanksgiving Day—including those who are different, acknowledging that we were once foreigners who were welcomed by those who were native-born, celebrating common cause with non-Christians.

What the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag accomplished wouldn’t have been possible in another time or another place. Perhaps had the Pilgrims arrived in Wampanoag territory before the epidemic struck, when the Wampanoag were more powerful and had no need of outsiders, the English would’ve been sent packing, or even killed. And I think we know, had the rôles been reversed and the Wampanoag been the ones to land at the old Plymouth—the one in England—seeking a new home, that they would have been seen as foreign invaders.

But these few colonists landed among a native population that had been nearly wiped out by a disease they’d never encountered before. And as it turned out, the Wampanoag needed the Pilgrims as much as the Pilgrims needed the Wampanoag. The Native Americans could never have known that what these strangers were founding wasn’t just a small village on the edge of a continent, but the most powerful nation on earth. And I suppose it’s natural that such power would make us think of ourselves as advanced, and as lifted up.

But perhaps we would do well instead to think of Plymouth in the autumn of 1621 as our high point, and to remember what it is we’ve fallen from. Wealth and power are not the be-all-and-end-all of nationhood, especially if the fear of immigrants eclipses the fear of God in our common life. And the celebration of a holiday, the very origin of which was the breaking down of barriers, in an atmosphere of wall-building must make our prayers of thanksgiving sound pitifully hollow in the ears of the One to whom we pray.

Maybe others can forget the Pilgrims this Thursday. Maybe they can be satisfied to say, “That’s not who we are,” or “That’s not what we’re about anymore.” But not us. We are the Pilgrims. When we want to explain to somebody which church it is that we belong to, what can we tell them but, “The one the Pilgrims brought with them on the Mayflower”? And if anybody asks us what it is that we believe in our church, few of us recite to them a creed or even particular theological doctrines that we espouse. Yes, we have our own beliefs, and we talk about them extensively in worship. But what we want others to know about us is that, whatever it is that we believe, we have come to that faith without coercion. And, like those who landed at Plymouth Rock, the fact that others have different beliefs does not mean that we cannot feast together with them.

Let’s remember this week those who celebrated the first Thanksgiving. Let’s remember what that observance was really about. Let’s remember how far we’ve fallen. And then let’s get up. We can’t go back to Plymouth in 1621. But we can go raise our voice above the current discourse, and we can raise our eyes out of the current rut in which we and our nation find ourselves.

Headed up Torrey Pines Road a couple of weeks ago, I was behind an old car that looked like it’d been rear-ended. The whole back of the car seemed to be kept together by duct tape. I thought of that when I started writing this sermon. If I were to ask you, “What do you do to keep it together?” how would you answer? I hope you wouldn’t answer that you use duct tape. I really mean, what is important enough in your life that you would turn to it to keep chaos at bay. What is it that, even when all else is lost, if you have this one thing, you can make it through.

For many of you it’s a grand concept like family—not just a person, and not just a certain set of people, but the idea that there are people held together by a common bond, regardless of who they are.

For others it’s service—service to country, service to a cause, and even (I hope) service to God.

A lot of people might say it’s their job. And in many cases, service and work are the same thing. I would hope most pastors would at least consider the work they do to be something that helps them to keep it together.

I’ve known several people who would say that a pastime is what helps them keep it together—something they can spend time on to calm their nerves, remove them from a tumultuous world, and engage their passions.

For many of you it’s a specific person. And for many of you this is actually a painful question, because the person you would have named as your answer is no longer by your side. If that’s the case, what would you say now?

And I guess the same thing can be said about any of our answers. Life isn’t constant. What was once possible for us is not always something we can do. The people who once surrounded us cannot stay there forever. Promotions, demotions, layoffs—these all change our relationship with the work we do. The causes we serve also change: When things go really well, we might be victorious and find ourselves saying, like Israel after the Babylonian exile, When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. [1] Or sometimes we are handed a defeat so bitter that we cannot imagine regrouping or taking up the mantle once again. What once empowered us to keep it together has fallen apart. And because the center could no longer hold, our opinion of who we are and what we’re capable of isn’t what it once was.

I. The Queen of the Sciences

I’ve named a lot of things that might help us keep it together. But none of those things really keep anything together. And I think we know that… and if we’ve forgotten, sometimes a jolt or a tragedy or a catastrophe can force us to remember. For in the best of times we usually don’t have to think too deeply, do we? We can make happy assumptions about our lives and about the way things are. We can take our good fortune for granted. We can become complacent.

But when the bad times come (as they must to all lives, sooner or later), we are forced to question the things we have (or don’t have), the way things are, even who we are. As for me, that’s why I’m here. I know many of you probably think I’m in church because it’s my job. But I’d be here even if I weren’t the minister. And if not here, then in some other gathering of Christians on the Lord’s Day.

That’s because I know something that’s in the Bible, and I’d know it even if it weren’t in the Bible. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. [2] I know that there’s a big something that makes sense of all the little somethings. There must be a reason behind all that is, and there must be something that ties everything together.

These days, many people think of scientists as being the ones who look for sources and connections. Maybe even most people. Even Christians have forgotten that theology was once called the Queen of the Sciences. Far from discouraging scientific research, the church used to sponsor it. What we now think of as real sciences were once thought of as essential to understanding theology, the highest of the sciences.

There are those who are glad that the days when science served faith are behind us. I’m not one of them. I believe that if we are possessed of faith, then faith is at our core—it transforms how we think, how we act, how we perceive ourselves, and how we perceive our surroundings—both seen and unseen. If we are possessed of faith, then we believe that there is One who is before all else, and that all things are held together in this One.

II. The Source of Integrity

To be before all things is to be both the Creator and the Means of creation. There may indeed have been something called a big bang. But some kernel of matter must already have existed in order for there to have been a bang. In this sense, all sciences still serve theology, for no science has yet explained the origin of that kernel.

And in the same sense, there must be something beyond scientific explanation that gives creation its integrity. Now, integrity has two meanings. One is structural. A house that is infested with termites might well have its structural integrity effected. Or we might say of a strong foundation made of stone that it has integrity.

But of course, we also mean something else—and this second meaning is actually more common in our everyday speech. For a person to have integrity is for that person to adhere to their principles, to practice what they preach. It’s what the psalmist was asking for when he or she prayed, Teach me your way, O Lord, that I may walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart to revere your Name. [3] To have an undivided heart is to be wholly committed to something or someone, to know in the heart of that heart what it is that put us here, and what it is that keeps us together.

A foundation that lacks integrity can bring a house to ruin. A heart without integrity can bring a human being to ruin. To lack integrity is to adhere to nothing, to live a lie, to be a hypocrite. These are conditions that may have no effect whatsoever on one’s continued existence. In fact, in many cases, those who lack integrity live long and materially prosperous lives.

III. Such Times as These

Not just persons, but systems and nations can lack integrity: they state a belief in the equality of all people, and yet all persons are not treated equally; they put forth justice as a principle upon which they’re built, yet laws exist only to advance the interests of the powerful. Such a system is like a glorious house whose foundation has cracked and crumbled after decades of rain and frost. It may retain its beauty for a time, but its days are numbered.

No material wealth, no human being, no nation lasts forever. We know that in theory. We just hope never to have to put that theory to the test. When confronted with the truth of the return of evil into the world, Frodo, in The Lord of the Rings, said to Gandalf, “I wish it need not have happened in my time.”

“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” [4]

When the people or things or notions that we look to help us keep it together are like a rug that is ripped out from under our feet, it’s time to think seriously about who we really are and what we’re really about. Knowing where we come from and the true Source of our integrity is essential to our survival. But more than our survival, such knowledge is also the source of our ability to do what is right.

Conclusion: Coach or First Class?

For many of us, the current situation finds us in fear for our future, the future of our families, the future of our country, and even the future of the world. But we know that neither a political party, nor even a constitution is the true Source of who we are, nor are any of those things what truly holds us together. To be a Christian is to be able to affirm that Christ himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And in times of doubt and chaos and uncertainty, we are able to say, “When I am afraid, I will trust in God.”

What a comfort that is. It’s like flying home in coach. I have placed my faith in God, but I’m still afraid. So afraid, that I not only feel like I’m flying coach, but that I’m sitting in the 36th row. All the way back next to the lavatories. In a middle seat. Right next to a crying baby. And there’s lot of turbulence, to boot. No, I’m not happy with my conveyance. But in the end, I’ll get back to where I came from.

But do I really need to stay in coach? It is possible, you know, to fly home first class. To go first class is to say not, “When I am afraid, I will trust in God,” but rather “I will trust in God and not be afraid.” [5]

I would like to share with you one of my favorite prayers. It’s from New Zealand, and it says: Father, imprint upon our hearts that because we belong to you, no one can pluck us from your hand; and because we fear you, we need fear no other. [6]

There is no sin in fear. Fear is sometimes necessary. It is a wake-up call. It tells us that we are in the presence of something either awesome or dangerous. But remaining in fear is not the ideal for a Christian. In John’s Gospel, Jesus told his disciples that he no longer thought of them as servants, but as friends—not because they’d chosen Christ, but because Christ had chosen them. And not just chosen them, but empowered them to bear fruit in the world. [7]

I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.

—Eph. 1:15-16

Not too long ago, airplane passengers flying into a small airport located in Northern Ireland began to notice something beneath them in the forest. There was an outline of something in the trees. It wasn’t always so striking, because the colors didn’t always stand out. But this year, when October rolled around, there was no denying it. In a woodland otherwise made up almost entirely of spruce trees, a different kind of tree (thousands of them!) had been planted. But the planting wasn’t done haphazardly. It was done very intentionally in the shape of an almost perfectly formed Celtic cross. The scale of the cross—over 300 feet long and over 70 feet wide—is so enormous that it cannot be perceived from the ground. Only from the air is it now visible. And because it’s autumn, the difference between the dark green spruce and the golden larch is breathtaking.

But you know what’s really weird? Nobody knew it was even there until just recently.

The cross was planted by a forester named Liam Emmery on the Irish Republic side of the border. But soon after he finished his work, he died at just 51 years of age. And though his wife knew something of the project, it had slipped her mind—understandable when one’s spouse is involved in a horrible accident. But nobody else had really heard anything about it. And so it wasn’t really until the cross appeared in all its glory, and people began noticing it, that his widow, Norma, realized what her husband had done. “Liam was in an accident,” she told a TV reporter, “and he was unwell for two years, and he had suffered brain damage; so that’s why, I suppose, I had forgotten about the plantation, because if he was here, we’d all have heard about it, because he would’ve been so proud.” [1]

Mr. Emmery created something made of living seedlings that will grow for generations. It will be seen specifically as a cross by people looking down on it from above. They will know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was an intentionally created Christian symbol. But the people who experience it from the ground: they’re going to walk among the trees growing in the forest; and though they may note that in one area spruces are growing while in another area there are larches, they’ll know nothing of the cross that they’ve suddenly become a part of—that’s surrounding them and shading them and providing them with a peace that is beyond their understanding. [2]

Could there be a better metaphor Christian discipleship? And could there possibly be a better story to call us to the Table on All Saints Sunday?

I think about Dick and Betty and Carrol and Sary this morning—the saints who once worship with us and worked by our side, but have joined the church triumphant since this same day last year—and I think of all the seeds they sowed: Betty as a nurse who literally never saw a stranger; Dick an educator and a genuinely funny man; Carrol who worked her whole life for the YWCA and wouldn’t coöperate with one of their camps that wanted to stay segregated; and Sary who gifted the world with music and volunteered for CCSA. In every case, we’re talking about some serious seed-sowing. But you know what? None of them lived to see what happened to all the seeds they planted.

None of us will, either. We may see an occasional change here and there. But often, even then, we’re not entirely sure if the transition is real, because it’s so slow. Like the cross in the forest, it may only be from above that we’ll able to see the beauty of what was planted, and the lasting change that came about because of a lifetime of planting seeds.

And so our invitation to the Table today is a bit different. As Christians, we believe in the communion of the saints. This means that all believers around the world gather at the same table at the same time. And not just around the world, but the saints of the past and the saints yet to be born are all present with us, too. Most of us remembered to set our clocks back an hour last night, but here, now, our clocks no longer work, for the Lord’s Table exists outside of time, and it cannot be confined by space.

So come today in thanksgiving for seeds that have been planted, filled with faith in what those seeds will become, hope that we may be part of their growth, and love for those who in the strength of God did the planting. For when a follower of the Crucified One plants a seed, it may look like healing or giving or justice or love or teaching or praise or preaching, but in reality, what we are sharing with the world is the cross of Christ. I may sow one kind of seed and you may sow another. Sary and Carrol and Betty and Dick each had their own gifts to share. And so do all Christians around the world.

Down here it may seem like chaos sometimes. It may seem futile. It may seem to lead to little or nothing. Or we may see others planting seed that bears fruit almost immediately, while ours only grow in God’s time. But when we finally see it from above, we’ll see the glorious story of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus being told in each act of giving, in every instance of pain, and in every victory—great or small. And that in every life and in every death, it is the cross that is being lifted up.

In a few minutes, we will give thanks for the cross and for those who pointed us toward it. But first let us admit to God that even the saints are not perfect, and that all of us need the forgiveness offered not only by God, but also by one another.

As servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities…

—2 Corinthians 6:4

Introduction: Luther’s Goat

Exactly 499 years ago tomorrow, an Augustinian monk named Martin Luther nailed a list of 95 statements to a church door in Wittenberg, Germany, which listed a series of complaints against the practices of the church at that time. Most of the complaints dealt with the selling of indulgences.

Indulgences were (and still are) given by the the Roman church to reduce either time spent in purgatory after death, or the amount of penance required for a sin before death. In Luther’s day, indulgences—as bits of writing on parchment—were actually being sold from town to town by religious peddlers in order to finance construction of St. Peter’s in Rome. These bits of parchment could be purchased for the forgiveness of a sin already committed, or a juicy future sin that the buyer had his or her eye on. This was the practice, more than anything else, that got Luther’s goat.

Rather than dialogue with Luther about the appropriateness of practices such as these, the religious authorities excommunicated Luther from the church he loved less than four years later after what we now call the Diet of Worms. It was here that Luther is supposed to have said, when asked to denounce his own views, “Here I stand. I can do no other.”

I. To Tell the Truth

These are the stories that are never far from my mind at the end of each October. Therefore, when NPR recently published a story online with the headline, “Pope Francis Reaches Out to Honor the Man Who Splintered Christianity,” I was kind of bent out of shape. Still today, we continue to denigrate prophets, and exile those who call for dialogue in the face of greed, injustice, and oppression. Not that I am complaining about Francis; he didn’t write that headline.

Luther was willing to risk it all for the truth. And I think that his “Here I stand” statement has helped confirm in our religious consciences that we must not compromise the truth. Our second hymn today is an even more extreme example of those who wouldn’t compromise their religious principles.

On the main square in Debrecen, Hungary stands a church called simply the Great Church (Nagytemplom). Behind this church lies another, smaller square called Calvin Square (Kálvin Tér). And on Calvin Square there is a relatively small monument dedicated to the faith of a group of pastors who refused to denounce their faith during what became known as the Counterreformation.

You see, during the Reformation, most of Hungary adopted the same religion as the Netherlands, Scotland, Switzerland, parts of Germany, and even England at the time. Today most people call it Calvinism. But when the Austrian monarchy reëstablished control not only over Hungarian politics, but also Hungarian religion, the clergy was forced back into the Roman fold. Those who refused to denounce their faith were sold as galley slaves in Italy. And both the hymn we sang between our two scripture readings and the obelisk behind the Great Church of Debrecen are memorials to a faith that wouldn’t compromise.

Risking it all for the faith is, of course, a very biblical thing to do. Israel did it in the Exodus and in the wilderness, as did the prophets who stood up to kings and queens in order to point out their faults. The cross that stands at the center of our church and so many others is testimony to the sacrifice Jesus made so that his truth could set us free. Tradition has it that of all the apostles, only one died a natural death—and that was John, who died in exile on the Isle of Patmos. And there were hundreds—probably thousands—of other martyrs in the early church who had to choose between death and denial.

2. All or Nothing

One of the places where we most clearly see what being a Christian was like soon after the death and resurrection of Jesus is in the first part of the sixth chapter of Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians. I like this passage because it strikes an interesting balance. It’s as though Paul is saying that there are lots of obstacles to being a Christian, and he’s willing to undergo all the difficulties imaginable so that his readers won’t have to. It’s not as though his difficulties get him any brownie points with God. The purpose of what Paul’s saying here is to let the Corinthians know that he’s trying to smooth the way for them. So while it’s open, they shouldn’t miss out on the opportunity to take advantage of the road ahead.

Here’s the way Eugene Peterson paraphrased this morning’s New Testament passage:

Companions as we are in this work with you, we beg you, please don’t squander one bit of this marvelous life God has given us. God reminds us,

I heard your call in the nick of time; The day you needed me, I was there to help.

Well, now is the right time to listen, the day to be helped. Don’t put it off; don’t frustrate God’s work by showing up late, throwing a question mark over everything we’re doing. Our work as God’s servants gets validated—or not—in the details. People are watching us as we stay at our post, alertly, unswervingly… in hard times, tough times, bad times; when we’re beaten up, jailed, and mobbed; working hard, working late, working without eating; with pure heart, clear head, steady hand; in gentleness, holiness, and honest love; when we’re telling the truth, and when God’s showing his power; when we’re doing our best setting things right; when we’re praised, and when we’re blamed; slandered, and honored; true to our word, though distrusted; ignored by the world, but recognized by God; terrifically alive, though rumored to be dead; beaten within an inch of our lives, but refusing to die; immersed in tears, yet always filled with deep joy; living on handouts, yet enriching many; having nothing, having it all.

—2 Corinthians 6:1-10 (The Message)

When we talk about things pertaining to Moses, we call them Mosaic, such as the Mosaic Law. Things that pertain to Matthew are Mattheian, so you can probably figure out what the words Markan and Lukan refer to. Things pertaining to the writer of the fourth gospel are Johanine. And things dealing with Paul are Pauline. And so these Pauline Perils that are described in 2 Corinthians 6 don’t, in my opinion, simply describe the difficulties Paul had, but are also a witness to the truth of the gospel that Paul preached. It’s the sort of witness we’ve seen through the ages.

Jesus spoke of it in the Beatitudes when he said,

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

—Matthew 5:10-12

These words must’ve been in the mind not only of Paul, but of Luther when he was holed up in the Wartburg. And of Calvin as he was fleeing to Strasbourg via Geneva. And of John Wesley when he was barred from preaching in Anglican churches because he’d answered God’s call to also preach in the fields and on street corners. And on Martin Luther King and Oscar Romero as they were gunned down because they spoke out for God’s justice.

III. A Vulgar Mistake

But here’s the thing. In every case, the difficulties undergone by God’s servants may have been “Here-I-Stand” moments, but none of them represented intransigence. In every case, the stance was more of a plea to be heard than it was an attempt to drown out other voices.

This is something we almost always forget these days. In today’s climate, people don’t seem to be able to tell the truth without calling everybody else a liar. Christian heroes of the past faced real perils, and they were able to face them with courage and grace. We imagine that we face perils simply because there are those who disagree with us, or because—God forbid!—we are in the minority. Ralph Waldo Emerson put it best when he said, “Let me never fall into the vulgar mistake of dreaming that I am persecuted whenever I am contradicted.”

It’s a sad fact that most of the people in our society who claim to be persecuted for telling the truth are simply coming up against people who disagree with them. They know nothing of what true martyrs had to deal with. There are worse fates than having to actually think about what you believe and explain it in front of those who believe differently. If we think we’re persecuted when a cashier in a discount store says “Happy Holidays” to us instead of “Merry Christmas,” then we need to study up on the Reformation and the fight against slavery and the Civil Rights Movement.

Conclusion: One of Them Must Be Wrong

So I think we have two things to think about on Reformation Sunday. The first is telling the truth in the face of persecution and Pauline perils, or any other kind of perils, for that matter. If the time comes for us to speak up, then let us pray for the wisdom to know when that time is, and the courage to tell the truth even when it’s unpopular. “Leave safety behind,” the Gray Panther activist Maggie Kuhn once said. “Put your body on the line. Stand before the people you fear and speak your mind—even if your voice shakes. When you least expect it, someone may actually listen to what you have to say. Well-aimed slingshots can topple giants.”

But we’re Christians. The slingshots, the toppling, and the giants are metaphorical. Jesus told us that it was the truth that would free us [John 8:32], not having the loudest voice or even the satisfaction of being right. No matter what happens later, we need to enter every situation with the prayer not only that somebody else will hear what we have to say, but that we will hear what they have to say. If “two men say they’re Jesus,” at least “one of them must be wrong” [Industrial Disease, Dire Straits]. But even if somebody isn’t the Son of God, they are still a child of God. May our truth never be expressed so loudly that it drowns out another’s humanity—even if that other would try to deny us our humanity.

I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.

—Luke 18:14

Introduction: Metanoia

The word of the day is repentance. It’s talked about a lot more in the Bible than it is in church. At least in this church. Though I doubt I talk about it more than once or twice a year, I’ve still had people literally quit the church after a sermon on repentance. But after hearing that passage from Luke just now, it’s gonna be pretty hard to ignore the subject at hand.

The word for repentance in the Bible is μετάνοια (metanoia). I think the idea behind this word is that the way we act reflects what’s in our mind, and that the way we think reflects what’s in our heart.

IA. Change on the Inside

Titian’s St. John the Baptist

Though the idea of repentance is in the Hebrew Bible, we usually associate it with the New Testament. And the first time it’s spoken of in the New Testament, it comes out of the mouth of John the Baptizer. He’s calling on people to change their hearts or (more literally translated) to change their minds, that is, to think about things in a different way, or to have a different attitude toward the surrounding world.

John had a very good reason for saying this, because the exact quotation from Matthew 3:2 when he first speaks of repentance is, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” It appears that John thought he was predicting that the coming of heaven would shatter the earth, that it would be a day of wrath; that it would force its ways on the world; that it would reward the good while punishing the bad.

What was actually on its way, of course, was something that couldn’t really be comprehended by unchanged minds or loved by hardened hearts. And so, John’s call to repentance was an all-purpose call—it would work in the face of the wrath of God, but it would actually work even better if the coming kingdom was a lot more subtle.

First of all, he was calling on most people to change the way they saw or perceived God’s work in their midst. They needed a change of mind or heart—which is what the word repentance means in Greek. When this happened, their actions would match their thoughts and feelings. But the message changed a bit when John spotted some others in the crowd.

IB. Change on the Outside

Though we often speak of the Pharisees and the Sadducees as though they’re part of the same movement, they were actually two distinct groups who opposed each other on some key issues. [1] But regardless of their differences, there were both Pharisees and Sadducees who came to hear John preach and even to be baptized by him. To them, John’s message was not “Repent,” but rather, “You brood of vipers, who told you to repent?”

It’s almost as though John is acknowledging that their hearts and minds are already where they should be. In other words, they know in their hearts what God’s ways are like, and they have the knowledge it would take to live according to God’s will. What they lack is the will to act. “Bear fruit worthy of repentance,” John tells them, “and quit claiming that your heritage makes you better than others.” In other words, “You already know the truth. Now show on the outside what you know on the inside, because your pedigree won’t cut it in the kingdom of God.” [2]

II. An Evening Out

C.S. Lewis

And so we have John the Baptizer telling the crowd to change their hearts and minds, but telling the religious leaders to show on the outside that their hearts and minds have already been changed. And this brings us to the reading we heard a few minutes ago from Luke in which two people went to the temple to pray: one a respected religious leader, and the other a collaborator with the enemy. The first thanked God that he was better than others and that he obeyed the law. The second said simply, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

I don’t know if he was thinking of this passage when he wrote it, but there’s a wonderful poem by C.S. Lewis that I want to share with you. It’s called The Apologist’s Evening Prayer:

From all my lame defeats and oh! much more From all the victories that I seemed to score; From cleverness shot forth on Thy behalf At which, while angels weep, the audience laugh; From all my proofs of Thy divinity, Thou, who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.

Thoughts are but coins. Let me not trust, insteadOf Thee, their thin-worn image of Thy head. From all my thoughts, even from my thoughts of Thee,O thou fair Silence, fall, and set me free. Lord of the narrow gate and the needle’s eye, Take from me all my trumpery lest I die. [3]

Not this kind of evening out

When we read the passage from Luke, I think one thing we’re in danger of is making a virtue out of being a sinner. Of course, Jesus came to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance. [4] And so when we read that God will lift up the humble and humble the exalted, I don’t want us to read it as though there’s still a pecking order, but the pecking order has simply been reversed. When we justify margins—whether on the right or the left or both—we even them out, placing every line at an equal distance from the edge. And that’s what the prophet was talking about when he said that every valley would be lifted up, mountains and hills be made low. [5] He wasn’t saying that the valleys would be above the hills or the mountains lower than the valleys. He was talking about an evening out.

And so it shouldn’t surprise us that, at the end of Jesus’ parable in Luke 18, the sinner left the temple on a higher plane than he entered it. He was willing to humble himself. And if the righteous person left unjustified, it was because he didn’t want to be justified. He didn’t want to be on the same level as the sinner. Because he thought he deserved the mountain view, he didn’t know how to live in the valley.

III. But for the Grace

And so, whether we’re on the mountain or in the valley, the one thing about repentance we need to know is that it is a gift of God. It’s something we need to do, yes, but unless the Spirit of God within us brings it to our attention, then our hearts and our minds will never be dissatisfied with our current condition.

In the case of the Pharisee in the parable, he was completely self-satisfied. He acknowledged that God had made him who he was, but apparently he thought that’s all there was; he need not change. The tax collector, on the other hand—this man who made his living by preying on the helpless and the poor—he entered the temple with the God-given hope that there was more. Money wasn’t doing for him what he thought it was. Even with the power of the Roman authorities backing him up, he knew that, in the grand scheme of things, he was an unimportant little man. He had nothing else to bring to the temple than a plea for God’s forgiveness.

The Pharisee was right to thank God for what God had made him. But his prayer shouldn’t have been to thank God for it. Instead his prayer should’ve been, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

We should pray, therefore, for a desire for repentance. We should ask God to show us where our hearts and minds are in need of renewal, where there is need for change, where our pride needs to be brought down, and where, even, our false humility needs to be lifted up. We shouldn’t look at wrongdoers as examples we should follow in order to be justified, unless those wrongdoers can show us the way to true repentance. It’s okay to be thankful if the change within us is already underway. But our gratitude should be that God’s grace is at work, not that we are somehow better than others because of our own power to change ourselves.

Conclusion: Among & Within

I just finished a dystopian novel called The Road by Cormac McCarthy. In it, an unnamed disaster has befallen the earth, and a little boy and his father are on the move. They’re starving much of the time, and most of the people they encounter are very scary. But one day they come upon a very old man, dressed in filthy rags. Much to the father’s chagrin, the little boy offers the man some of their food. And because his son offered it, the father was compelled to share. But later he tells his son, “When we’re out of food, you’ll have more time to think about it.”

“I know,” the little boy answers, “but I won’t remember it the way you do.” [6]

Repentance is not a one-size-fits-all concept. No two people need to repent of the same things. But more importantly, there’s a difference in repentance that leads to faith and the repentance of those who have faith. In the example of the little boy and his father, the father knew that he was going to be sorry that he ever shared his food with the old man. And let’s not be too hard on him: his concern wasn’t that he was going to go hungry because of it, but that his son was going to suffer. But the little boy would remember the same event with gratitude that he’d shared his food with the hungry.

The old man, the little boy, and the father each experienced the same event, but each would remember it a different way. Their prayers, therefore, would each need to be different.

Ours do, too. Sometimes we’re the Pharisee and sometimes we’re the tax collector. Sometimes we’re the upstanding church member, and sometimes we’re the outsider. Our first prayer should be one of repentance—that God will change our perception of the things around us, so that we’ll see the world through the eye of God, perceive the world with the mind of the Spirit, and love the world with the heart of Christ. In the previous chapter of Luke, Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is among you.” Let us pray that we can tell the between God’s values and the world’s.

But that saying can also be translated as “The kingdom of God is within you” …as long as we remember that the Greek word means within y’all, and not within us as individuals. If our hearts and our minds have changed, or if we know that we are even now undergoing transformation, [7] than our prayer needs to grow from “change me, O God,” to “help my life show the world that I know the difference between your values and the world’s.”

The Pharisees get a bad rap, but they were much more aligned with the common people than were the Sadducees, whose service mostly was to the rich and powerful. The Pharisees also incorporated oral tradition into their belief system, while the Sadducees would’ve been considered biblical literalists. And finally, the Sadducees didn’t believe in a resurrection (see Matt. 22:23 & Acts 23:6-8), while the Pharisees did. For this reason, it is often said that Jesus himself would’ve been considered a Pharisee.

I was going to ask today how many of you have heard people say a certain thing. But I know many of you pretty well by now, so maybe I should ask how many of you have actually said this thing. And the thing is this: “I believe in the New Testament God; the Old Testament God just sounds too angry and vengeful.”

I’m not saying it’s a horrible thing to say. There is a lot more of the wrath of God in the first 39 books of the Bible than in the final 27 books. But the first 39 are a much larger portion of the Bible, and they cover a lot more history—over a thousand years—when compared to the New Testament which covers just a few decades of history. I know that explanation isn’t adequate for some of you, but I hope it at least helps us put the Hebrew Bible in context.

The fact of the matter is that the New Testament does contain a few examples of the wrath of God [1], and the Old Testament contains countless examples of God’s grace. Times were different and the culture was different and even the language was different, so those stories of grace aren’t always told in ways that 21st century Christians can relate to. But sometimes they are…

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth [Job 19:25].

As far as the east is from the west, so far he removes our transgressions from us [Ps. 103:12].

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor [Isa. 61:1-2].

I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions [Joel 2:28].

That’s just a few instances of amazing grace in the Old Testament. But I’m thinking of a different one today, and the one I’m thinking of can actually be compared to a similar point made in the New Testament. There’s nothing wrong with the way the New Testament puts it, but the Old Testament says it so much better—or a least it says it in a way that we can relate to a whole lot more readily.

A few weeks ago, I used as my text a portion of the beginning of the second chapter of 1 Timothy, which urges that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity [2]. It’s an important one for us today—especially in an election year when some claim that if the wrong person wins, then we have an obligation not to honor them.

Introduction Part B: Jeremiah 29

But did you know that this same idea is found in the Hebrew scriptures? The context is very different, but the message is amazingly similar. So let’s first work on the context.

The Prophet Jeremiah spoke during a time of invasion and exile. Today’s reading from the Hebrew Bible came from a letter Jeremiah wrote to God’s people who’d been carted off to live in exile in Babylon, the city of their conquerors. The most popular prophets seem to have been saying, “It’s against God’s will that we’re here,” and “As long as we don’t coöperate with the enemy, God will rescue us.” But Jeremiah has been saying something all along that Christians these days are told never to tell anyone: All this is happening for a reason. Jeremiah went so far as to say that God’s hand is in what has happened and is happening.

And so today, Jeremiah says not to listen to those who are trying to tell you that this situation cannot be what God wants; who are saying that if God’s people are to remain God’s people, they must reject the life that’s been handed to them against their will; and who are preaching that God’s people must resist and hate the people who are part of their new surroundings.

Jeremiah’s message is very different. In fact, it’s just about the opposite in every way:

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what you grow. Fall in love; get married, have babies. Indeed, seek the welfare of the city where you’ve been sent into exile—even pray for it—because your well-being depends on its well-being [Jer. 29:5-7, adapted].

I. Everything happens for a reason… or does it?

One of the most pervasive sayings of the past is, “Everything happens for a reason.” One of the most pervasive sayings of the present is, “Stop saying everything happens for a reason, because it doesn’t.” The United Church of Christ is very much a church of the present, and so most of my colleagues in ministry believe strongly in that latter saying—that we shouldn’t say everything happens for a reason.

And I can understand why. It all goes back to what I said at the start of this sermon: Do we want an Old Testament God or a New Testament God? Do we want to see God’s hand in bad things as well as good, or do we want to see God’s hand only in the things that we can immediately recognize as good?

Well, if you’re not actually asleep right now and were listening to the way I just asked that question, it’s probably clear to you that I don’t always agree with my colleagues. I am no less bothered by the idea that horrible things that happen are somehow part of God’s plan than anyone else is. But I am bothered even more by the notion that things happen for no reason at all, and that there are so many things going on that must be completely outside God’s plan.

Of course the notion that God’s plan includes bad things as well as good things is not strictly an Old Testament concept. If anything, the very theological basis of the New Testament is a horrible thing—the crucifixion—that was part of God’s plan in order to accomplish the best thing in the history of the universe. The language of the Christian scriptures is friendlier to our way of thinking, but the message is the same: God’s will is present in the best that can happen as well as the worst that can happen.

Which is what we see in Jeremiah 29. Those who say that it was against God’s will that God’s people experience defeat and exile, and that they should seethe and simmer and refuse to coöperate in Babylon—these people aren’t talking about Jeremiah’s God, who says, “Live your lives, and work for the good of everybody in your new city.” In other words, when something bad happens, Jeremiah says not only to try to make sense of it, but to have faith that God is still in it. God is not just present in victory and joy, but is also present in sadness and defeat—even that sadness and defeat might somehow be furthering God’s plan.

II. Go Ahead and Live

Another point that Jeremiah’s making here is that life is always worth living. This was actually one of Jesus’ most important messages, too. He said it in many ways, but nowhere more clearly than in the Sermon on the Mount: Which of the birds of the air worries about what it doesn’t have—even at the very moment it’s enjoying God’s providence? And does a beautiful flower in full bloom regret the coming time when its bloom will fade? “So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow’s going to bring worries all its own. Today is intended to be lived today.” [3]

There are many reasons to worry in life. And there are just as many reasons to put off living until this or that worry has been alleviated. The older I get, of course, the more I realize: There’s always going to be something to fret over, and there’s always going to be at least one reason to put life on hold. I need to get my finances in order. I need to “be in a relationship” …or heal a relationship …or even end one. I need to wait till the kids are grown, or out of college. I need to wait till my health improves. I need to wait till I get a job… or get a raise… or retire. There’s always going to be something, some reason to put off living.

And perhaps Israel in Babylonian exile had the greatest excuse of all: “We need to wait until we can return home before we get on with our lives.” Who among us wouldn’t think the same thing? And this view, I think, effects our attitude towards others in dire straits. When we see men and women and children—entire families—on the move or in refugee camps, I think we feel for them. But I also think we must be discounting the lives they’re living, or we’d be more passionate about doing something about the problem. Their lives are less than our lives, because they’re not where they ought to be, because they’re on the move, because everything must be on hold.

But is that what Jeremiah would say? Or Jesus? If God has granted life, then that life is worth living meaningfully. And if it’s worth their trouble to live it, then it’s worth us caring about it. We can never be so far removed from where we think we ought to be that life is no longer worthwhile. And in today’s world of television and internet and mobile smart phones, no one is so far removed from us that we cannot care.

III. The Welfare of the City

That’s one current events message we can find in today’s reading from the Hebrew Bible. And another is one I hinted at earlier: Seek the welfare of the city where you find yourself, for its well-being and yours are inextricably connected. One of the reasons the Babylonian exile remains of utmost importance to both Christians and Jews is how God’s people forged an identity in a faraway land where they were different from their neighbors. They developed new understandings of what they’d believed all along. They learned what to emphasize and (probably) what was unimportant. They even collected and edited and wrote down their holy stories—many of which had just existed as part of the oral tradition. They began to appreciate—perhaps for the first time—all the ways they were different.

But through Jeremiah, God told them that, even if they weren’t to blend in, they were still supposed to be good neighbors. That woman next door who doesn’t dress like you? Pray for her well-being. That guy across the street who worships a different god? His prosperity will help you prosper. The family with the vegetable stand in the market who don’t speak your language? Do business with them—the better off they are, the stronger your own children will be.

The writer of 1 Timothy told us to pray for leaders, even if we disagree with them, because an orderly world is a world in which people can be provided for and in which the gospel can be advanced. Just as in Babylon, praying for the welfare of the city helped God’s people prosper even as they were forging a unique identity that helped preserve God’s word for centuries after the exile ended.

When Christians teach that we must hate leaders we disagree with and fight them at every turn, we aren’t standing on very firm biblical ground. A distinct identity for God’s people does not mean that God’s people have to be opposed to the well-being of their neighbors or the orderliness of the world in which we find ourselves. Whether or not revolution is ever justified is a whole ‘nother sermon. What is not justified, however, is equating a political movement with the gospel, or any human leader as a necessary component of our salvation. We already have a Messiah. We dare not place our hope in any other.

Conclusion: ‘It Might Be Hope’

Speaking of which, hope is perhaps Jeremiah 29’s greatest gift to us. For in the 11th verse God says to Israel, For surely I know the plans I have for you—plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. And remember the context: Israel’s fate is uncertain; they’re in exile; they’re being told by many not to accept this fate, and to rage against the Babylonian machine. But Jeremiah is sharing with them a different message: God is neither ignorant of what’s happening to you nor powerless to prevent it.

Indeed, God tells Israel, what’s happening to you is all according to plan. Live the life you’ve been handed. Make the best of it. Love your neighbors—even the neighbors that you thought of as the enemy. Prosper and grow. There will be a time to return to the Land, but that time is not this time. When you return you will be different people than you are now. You’ll know more, you’ll accept more, you’ll better understand what makes you different. And you’ll have a new understanding of what Zion is.

None of this was natural to Israel, because it’s not human nature to embrace difficult change. If we want to see their first reaction, all we have to do is look at a very familiar psalm. Or at least we’re familiar with the first part of it:

By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion. And on the willows there we hung up our harps when our captors demanded music of us, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion! But how could we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?

That’s the first part of Psalm 137. Its ending is the ugliest and most vengeful thing in the entire Bible. For my own sake, I won’t quote it directly, but its basic message is a blessing upon anyone who takes their anger out on the children of Babylon.

This psalm is a prayer to God—it starts out more beautifully than it ends, but both the beautiful beginning and the ugly ending are answered by the God it was addressed to. And the answer was No.

To the claim that the Lord’s songs could be sung in exile, God said, “No, you can sing my songs in Babylon!” And the songs were sung, and the faith grew, and hope did not die. And as to that last part, the expression of the need for vengeance was just that: An expression, a confession to God that there was inconsolable hatred in the hearts of those who prayed this prayer. And to that, God said loudly and clearly, No. You may not wish ill either upon your conquerors or their children. But you must wish them well. And when you pray to me for their well-being, I’ll hear those prayers, and to those I will answer Yes.

People of God—whether they’re found in the earlier parts of the Bible, or the parts at the end—are people of love and hope. Hatred and despair are not who we are, even when we find ourselves in desperate situations, or when we’re dealing with people we’re told are our enemies. It wasn’t the way of Jeremiah, nor is it the way of Jesus. I don’t know whether we can all believe that there’s a reason for everything. But maybe we don’t have to. Maybe it’s enough to believe that whoever we are, and wherever we are on life’s journey, God created the path we’re on, the Christ who has already walked it also has our back, and we are accompanied each step of the way by the inner presence of God’s Spirit.

For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.

See especially Acts 5:1-11, in which Ananias and Sapphira were struck dead on the spot for lying to the church in order to withhold some of the profits from a piece of property they sold.

1 Timothy 2 isn’t the only place where this is found in the N.T. It’s also found in Romans 13:1-7, Hebrews 13:17 & 1 Peter 2:13-17. It could also argue that Jesus was making this same point in Matthew 22, Mark 12, and Luke 22 when he said to “give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

When you serve English-speaking churches in other countries, you meet lots of people from lots of different places. And one of the things you learn when you meet people from Britain is that the old saying is true: Americans and Britons are separated by a common language. Case in point. When I was in Europe, I was the coordinator of lots of different English-speaking programs, and when the pastor of the church in Hamburg, Germany left to come back to the United States, the congregation had to wait several months for its new pastor, so I went to Hamburg to serve them in the interim.

Though they loved their old pastor, there were lots of complaints about how nothing he did was ever familiar to them; and when I tried to pinpoint exactly what it was they found so strange, I discovered it was the hymns. Since this particular congregation was populated mostly by people from England and South Africa, it was evident that one of the problems was the songs that they were used to singing weren’t the same ones that the American pastor was used to choosing from the church’s hymnal published in the United States.

This problem’s easy enough to solve, I thought, so we talked about the songs they loved the most. The one that really stood out was All Things Bright and Beautiful. And that made sense. Apparently it was a song that was sung frequently in England, but in the United States not so much. So I chose it for the following Sunday. I expected the complainers to be considerably pacified after church that day, but instead they were practically apoplectic. As it turns out, Americans sing the exact same words to a completely different tune.

And I think that’s what may have happened here. Today’s service is called Blessing of the Animals. And I think that most people have come to church expecting that to mean one thing, but finding that it, in fact, means another. In a little while we’ll hold our pets close and say a prayer, but it won’t be so much a prayer of blessing as it is a prayer of thanksgiving and even a prayer for pardon—our pardon, not theirs. And this is because the blessing that occurs on a day like today is not imposed by the minister of this church on animals, but by the animals on the church.

This all has to our theology of creation. God created all things to be a blessing, but creation is in a fallen state. But that is no fault of the animals. It’s because of the bad stewardship of humans. Sometimes we selfishly and knowingly abuse the earth. But other times, because we have so separated ourselves from creation, we think we are doing the earth a favor when we are actually hurting it.

Another case in point: Yellowstone. When Europeans showed up on the scene in that part of the country, we had a vision of what would make things ideal. And that ideal didn’t include wolves, and so we saw to it that all the wolves disappeared. It made raising livestock much easier. And for three quarters of a century, there were no wolves in Yellowstone National Park.

But a few years ago (1995), a single wolf pack was reïntroduced to Yellowstone. And the change in the environment was almost immediate and it was incredible. By this, you’d think I meant that the wolves killed many of the deer and rodents and whatever else it is that wolves hunt, and the change was simply in the number of animals. And though of course some of that happened, that’s not what I’m talking about. The wolves killed a few deer, because they—like us—are predators. But the main thing that happened, and it happened almost immediately, was that the deer—whose population was totally out of control—began to behave differently in order to keep away from the wolves. They began to avoid certain areas, and when that happened, vegetation that had been eaten away by the deer began to grow and thrive. Tree seedlings that once would’ve disappeared began to become trees. Barren fields became grassy meadows and grassy meadows became woodlands. Yes, the deer were elsewhere. But this meant that birds returned, and rodents. And when these came, so did foxes and badgers and eagles. The young trees were inviting to beavers, and the beavers began their work of engineering. And the courses of the rivers changed. And if you were to think that was all the work of the beavers, then you’d be wrong. The wolves played just as important a rôle in that change. No wolves don’t build dams, but the deer, which were now in their more natural habitat, were no longer removing all the vegetation from riverbanks. And so the roots of the grasses and the trees stabilized the banks and the rivers quit meandering and in many places their channels narrowed and deepened. Thanks to the wolves, there was now new habitat for fish.

We might not realize it, but the fellow predators who accompany us through our lives are in their own way more naturally creative than we’ll ever be. There is a wisdom to the natural world that we have forgotten. But it’s still right there in many places in the Bible. The 19th Psalm tells us that the heavens proclaim God’s handiwork, and the wordless speech of the cosmos preaches the glory of God. And when we seek answers to the questions of the ages, Job tells us to ask the plants and animals and they will teach us, the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, and they’ll tell us about the God who made us all [see Job 12:7-9].

Our dogs and cats and other pets are possessed of a wisdom that we’ve forgotten, and these creatures that share our homes and our hearts aren’t just a blessing to us, they’re a blessing to God’s creation. When we look at our dog or our cat, we shouldn’t just see a house pet. Instead we should see a forester and an engineer, a creature whose instinct is to create habitat for birds and rabbits and beavers, and whose wisdom changes the courses of rivers and restore creation to its natural balance. We think we’re smart, but we’re not as wise as some of the friends we most take for granted.

And so in a few minutes we’re going to share in a blessing. But it won’t so much be us blessing our pets—they are already blessed by God in ways that we cannot imagine—but more to give thanks for the blessing that they are to us. But first, let’s sing All Things Bright and Beautiful… using the American tune.